George picks his way through the room, crossing between the tables, playing it cool.
He did this every day, this little jaunt. Leaving Rosehip Cottage through the back gate, crossing the field, a leisurely stroll along the brook, crossing the A38 and into Mandy’s Tea Rooms.
Proud, haughty, quiet and focused.
Deadly if you were a Devon cream scone, with raspberry jam.
He was an old boy now, but still liked to impress.
The brightly dressed ladies from the village congregate in the tearooms. The moment he showed himself, he’d be met with delight.
“Oh look, it’s George!” Today it’s Agatha, “Come sit with me George, you handsome devil!”
She pats the chair beside her, and George carefully considers the offer before scoping the room for a better one.
“Georgie, George! Well, how do you do?” Hilda waves him over.
He struts the length of the room, resplendent in a black and white tuxedo. He’s carefully groomed, always overdressed for the occasion -it’s what makes him so alluring.
He catches Sally’s eye, “George, you look very handsome today,” she says.
He takes a detour to join her. Hilda and Agatha will be disappointed, but Sally always lets him lick the cream from her dish. A purr, a mew, and he leaps up onto the chair beside Sally, enjoying a gentle hand smoothing along his muscly spine.
“George ‘The Paws’, you crafty devil, here don’t tell the others!”
And there it is. Purr-fection. A gleaming bowl of China, laden with dollops of clotted cream, Purr, Purr, Purr…